


art is (not) dead

by bookishpanda



Series: Sanders Sides Shorts [20]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Background Roman, Food mention, M/M, Painting, art critic, art critic Logan, painter Logan, painter Virgil, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28251159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookishpanda/pseuds/bookishpanda
Summary: Logan is highly critical of abstract art, but when he meets local artist Virgil, he realizes the parts of himself that he's been missing.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Series: Sanders Sides Shorts [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067366
Kudos: 25





	art is (not) dead

Logan adjusted his glasses, eyes focused on the abstract painting in front of him. When it came to artwork in that style, he either appreciated it or it confused him, and this piece fell into the latter category. It was a white canvas with cloud-like shapes in various shades of purple, gray, and black. Logan wanted to understand what the artist was trying to convey, but he only felt perplexed. As he stepped up to read the information about the piece, a man stood to his left. 

“Priced a bit high,” Logan muttered, gripping his pen a little tighter. He scribbled down the title, price, and artist of the piece, then straightened back up. He spun on his heel, and the man who was standing there was looking at him, frowning. Logan observed the badge on his black coat, denoting him as an artist. The name… “Oh, this is your piece,” Logan said, recalling the name he had just written down.

“Is there something wrong with my art…” the man, named Virgil Storm, narrowed his eyes onto Logan’s badge, explaining that he was the critic at the show, “...Mr. Crofters?” Logan sighed, glancing back to the large art piece.

“I do not understand why you have titled it ‘anxiety’,” Logan explained, “and the colors don’t… bring any certain emotion.” Virgil rolled his eyes, inhaling sharply. He was used to this by now, critics claiming they knew what art needed to be, but he was sick of it. The art represented how he felt, no matter how abstract it was.

“Look, you don’t need to _understand_ art for it to be worth something,” Virgil explained, gesturing to all of the art surrounding them. “It means something to the _artist_. But you wouldn’t understand that, you just like critiquing and judging the things that people put countless hours into, hmm?” Logan frowned at this, and felt a pang of unease. “Yes, Mr. Crofters. I’ve heard of you and your… critiquing. You caused Roman Prince, one of the greatest artists in the area, to have a mental breakdown because you didn’t ‘understand’ the piece that he dedicated to his brother.”

“Look, Storm. This is what I studied. I know art-”

“You know what _you_ like, and I don’t care if you think my art is overpriced. You couldn’t create something with half as much heart or emotion, I’m sure,” Virgil started to step away, but Logan stepped in front of him, eyes dark.

“I _can_ paint,” Logan informed him. He thought he was no good, though, which is why he became a critic. He hadn’t painted in years.

“Oh? Prove it, then,” Virgil fished a business card out of his pocket. “The address for my studio is there. Come by tomorrow and prove to me that you can do art.”

-

Logan stared at the brick building, the wide windows startling him. He considered turning back, going home, because why did he need to prove himself to a cocky artist like Virgil Storm? Except he didn’t turn back, he gripped the paints that he had dug out of his closet a little tighter in his hand and stepped to the door, knocking only once. If Virgil didn’t hear him, then he could say it wasn’t his fault-

Of course, Logan was not that lucky. The door swung open, revealing Virgil with a stained button-up lavender shirt, paint-splattered black pants, his long hair pulled into a bun. “Ah, the critic,” Virgil smirked, stepping aside to let Logan inside. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to show after my painting sold for higher than the listed price.”

Logan glanced around at the bottom floor of the lofted building; it was covered with full, half-full, and blank canvases and plants, and he could see that on the second level there was a full bedroom. There were two easels set up, one with what Logan assumed was Virgil’s current work in progress, the other with a blank canvas. He glanced down at his own clothes; his polo shirt and tie and slacks, and wondered if he should have worn something that he didn’t mind getting paint on.

“Need an apron?” Virgil asked, strolling over to the easels. He pulled an apron from behind one of them, paint splatters and charcoal stains coating most of the fabric. “You can use this one,” he tossed it at Logan, who nearly dropped his paints in the process. Virgil lifted a paintbrush from his easel, and Logan noted the bright colors he was using with the current piece; yellows, pinks, and teals in a pattern that almost resembled a sunset. 

“Thanks,” Logan set his paints down on the bottom of the easel and slipped the apron over his head, then got out his brush. He glanced over at Virgil, who seemed to be deep in thought, lips pursed as he splattered some orange onto the canvas. Logan began with black paint, outlining a figure, and the two painted in silence for a while, until Virgil set his paintbrush down and stretched his arms up, his shirt riding up to reveal a pierced belly button. Logan blinked, then returned his focus to the silhouette he was painting.

“Want anything to drink? I’ve got about twenty types of tea, but there’s also wine…” He ran a hand through his hair to fix it back up into a bun, not realizing that there was yellow paint on his fingers, and Logan bit back a grin when the paint streaked Virgil’s dark hair.

“Um, tea’s fine. Whatever kind you’re having,” Logan responded. He had loosened his tie earlier and his glasses were situated on the top of his head, and he felt more relaxed than he had in years; painting was something he enjoyed so much, but with his work schedule and the discouragement he faced from those around him… he had stepped away from the thing that he was so passionate about.

Logan refocused on his painting; it was a silhouette of a man standing outside, and he had decided that he would paint the night sky around the frame of the man’s likeness. After a few minutes, he felt Virgil standing next to him, and noted that the artist had placed a mug of tea on the table between the easels. 

“Wow,” Virgil breathed out, his eyes focused on the painting. “Your silhouette work is incredible,” he murmured, and Logan glanced at him, wondering if he was being mocked, but the expression on Virgil’s face only showed admiration. 

“Oh. Um. Thank you,” Logan grabbed the mug of tea, holding it up to his lips to distract from the blush that had coated his cheeks. The aroma of roses and jasmine wafted into his nose, and he felt a bit calmer. No one had ever complimented his art; he didn’t know how to react to Virgil’s kind words. 

Luckily, he didn’t need to say anything more, as Virgil stepped away and back to his easel. 

-

By the time they had both finished their paintings, the sun had gone down and Virgil had flipped on the lights of the loft, revealing several sets of fairy lights in the windows. It was almost… magical, Logan thought, and as he pulled the apron back over his head, hanging it off of the easel, he wondered if he’d be allowed to come back and paint another time.

Virgil stood beside him, hand on his chin, looking at Logan’s painting closely. Perhaps unconsciously, Logan had given the silhouetted man a bun and a paintbrush, and he wondered if Virgil would notice.

“Well, it looks like I owe you an apology, Mr. Art Critic,” Virgil finally said, turning to glance at Logan. “You _can_ paint, and you’re good. You should enter in the next show.”

“It’s really not… that good,” Logan muttered, closing the case with his paints. “It’s been a long time since I painted. I don’t think I’ve touched a paintbrush since college.”

“Why is that?” Virgil asked, eyes focused on the way that Logan’s face was turning a pale pink.

“I was… discouraged often. My parents didn’t think that painting was a worthwhile endeavor, but I didn’t want to step away from the world of art,” Logan’s eyes followed Virgil, who sat down on a plastic-covered couch, then beckoned the critic over. He sat down next to him, and Virgil pulled his legs under him, his elbow on the edge of the couch and his chin in the palm of his hand.

“You realize that’s what you’ve become, don’t you?” Virgil asked incredulously. Logan raised his eyebrows, frowning. “Roman hasn’t painted in weeks. If I wasn’t familiar with my own self-doubt, your words could have stopped me, too. Art isn’t meant to be judged, it’s meant to be appreciated and encouraged, and you should be aware of that, if that’s what you went through.”

“I… I’m sorry.” Logan didn’t say anything else, he wanted to run and never come back, but he felt like he could trust being around Virgil. “Do you… have Roman’s phone number? I would like to apologize to him.” Virgil nodded, but made no other movements, except to flutter his eyes shut. “I should go.”

“Do you want to take your painting with you?” Virgil asked, glancing over at the easels. Logan glanced, too, and shook his head.

“No. You can keep it,” he wanted to ask Virgil if he could come back the following day to paint some more, but he didn’t want to impose. Or be annoying. Logan often found that people didn’t want to spend time with him, so he began to favor being alone. “It was nice to paint again, if only for a bit.”

“You’re not going to get back into it?” Virgil’s hand was on his forearm, and Logan sucked in a deep breath, then shook his head.

“I have no reason to,” he explained, wanting to pull his arm away. Virgil grimaced at this. 

“Yes you do. You love it. You’re _good_ at it. Don’t give up on it again,” Virgil’s voice was nearly pleading, and Logan looked away from the man, because the emotions were too strong, and he couldn’t bear to feel them. He didn’t want to feel anything. “Logan.”

“I can’t. I don’t have an easel or canvases or…” Logan trailed off, and Virgil squeezed his arm gently. “I can’t get back into it. It’s not… serious enough. I want to be taken seriously. I need to be.”

“Why?” Virgil’s voice was calling him back, his long fingers warm against Logan’s skin, and the critic resisted the urge to run again. “Why do you need to be taken seriously? Because of your parents? Logan, your skills speak for themselves. You _can_ be taken seriously as an artist.”

“Does your family take you seriously?” Logan asked, and Virgil’s eyes opened. He chewed on his lower lip, then sighed before responding.

“I haven’t spoken to my family since I was seventeen. There was a lot more than just my art that they didn’t accept me for,” Virgil’s voice was low, and Logan just nodded, understanding. “You can come back to paint whenever you want, Logan.”

-

And so he did. The following morning, he showed up at Virgil’s loft, bagels and coffee in hand. Instead of his normal professional attire, he was wearing an old pair of jeans and a NASA t-shirt that had bleach stains. The door was open when he approached it, so he peeked in to see Virgil already at his easel, a new painting in the works, dressed in the same outfit as the day before.

“Um, good morning, Virgil,” Logan said, announcing his presence. “I brought some bagels and coffee,” he said, stepping over to set the food and drinks on the kitchen counters. 

“Thank goodness, I’m going to need caffeine. I didn’t finish the painting from yesterday until three in the morning,” Virgil groaned, stepping away from the easel temporarily to grab the coffee Logan had brought for him. “You’re my hero.” Logan turned bright red at this, looking down at his feet. “Oh. I talked to Roman. He actually started painting again. Let me get my phone to show you the picture,” Virgil stepped away, and Logan had to hold back again. Standing close to the other man was intoxicating, but he craved it. Even though he had only known the painter for two days, he was entranced, and had never felt the need to gravitate around another person in that way.

When Virgil stepped back over to him, phone showing a picture of a painting of a throne. Logan smiled faintly at it, remembering Roman’s penchant for theatricality and royalty. And then Logan realized just how close he was standing to Virgil. The artist seemed to notice, as well, because he stepped away, clearing his throat. Without saying anything, the two went to their easels, and painted in silence for some time.

Virgil had given his canvas a thorough once-over with black paint, and allowed it to dry before starting to add colors on top of it; dark blues and purples were swirled on. Logan found himself pause what he was doing to watch the way that Virgil arched his wrist in a precise way to allow for different points of pressure from the brush. He wondered if Virgil had studied art, and glanced around the room to see if he could locate any degrees. None were visible, though, and he didn’t want to ask and break the comfortable silence they had entered.

They painted in that space of tranquility for a few hours, until Logan heard his stomach grumble. Virgil chuckled a bit at this, setting his brush down and stepping back from his own easel. “I’ll order us some lunch, is Chinese takeout alright?”

“Sounds delicious. Kung Pao Chicken, please,” Logan responded, setting his brush down to look at his painting as a whole. It was a silhouette again, but this time there were two figures, and it looked like they were dancing. He hadn’t done the background yet, but he wanted to do something similar to the galaxy he had painted the day before. He heard Virgil finish making the order for takeout, and then felt his presence next to him.

“Are they dancing?” Virgil asked, letting his hair out of its bun. Logan ignored the way that his dark hair framed his pale face, and instead just nodded. “You must be familiar with dancing, I can almost see the movement in them.”

“I’m not much of a dancer, but my cousin Patton is,” he explained, remembering the times when, as teenagers, he and Patton would learn different styles of dance, even ballroom dancing. A smile crossed his features, and he barely noticed that music started playing from a speaker. Then he felt arms on his, pulling him into Virgil’s arms so they could move to the music. “Virgil, I-”

“Shh, just dance with me,” Virgil’s voice was calm, and Logan leaned into the touch, his head resting on the other man’s shoulder, Virgil’s hands settling on his waist. They moved around the empty space of the room until the doorbell rang, and Logan felt as if he had been pulled out of a dream. The two ate their takeout in silence, though the quiet was not as pleasant as it had been prior; there was now this tension spread out in front of them, and neither of them knew what to do with that.

By the time they had both finished eating and returned to their easels, Logan knew that he was visibly rigid, but his hands shook with every movement. He could barely press his paintbrush against the canvas without needing to pull away for fear of making one wrong move. Of course, it was the fact that he was afraid of all of his past wrong moves and the fear that if he made a false choice now, the progress he had made and the confidence he had built up with his painting again would fade away. 

Virgil could practically feel the unease dripping from Logan’s body, so he left his painting to dry (at this point, all he wanted to do was add some white borders to the swirls), and stepped over to Logan, taking the brush from his hand. “You want to talk about it?” Logan wouldn’t meet his eyes, but nodded, and the two moved to sit on the couch, Virgil leaning close into the cushions, watching Logan with those dark eyes of his. 

“I want to learn how to be okay with the things that I tried to push back,” he finally said, and Virgil knew it wasn’t just the painting he was talking about. “But… I don’t know where to start.”

“You already have started, Logan. You’re painting again, and you need to keep painting, no matter how hard it is or how conflicted you feel,” Virgil’s voice was soft as he scooted a little closer to the critic, and his fingers pulled Logan’s face to look at him. “As for the other things… take your time. Be open. It’s… hard. But… I think that everyone deserves a second chance, and I’m happy to help you on your journey.”

-

Logan stepped into the building and walked up to the table with badges, scanning the rows until he found the one he was looking for: _Logan Crofters, Artist, Dancing Under the Stars_. A faint smile crossed his face as he pinned it to his jacket, and then he wandered to where he knew the canvas was hung. 

On his way there, he passed Roman, whose throne painting was hung proudly as the center of the show, and they shook hands, exchanged friendly greetings, and made promises to see each other at the after party. Then Logan went to stand by his painting, the lights from up above illuminating the silhouettes in a way that no natural light could. 

Logan felt a presence to his left, and glanced over to see Virgil beaming brightly. His sunset painting was on display a few exhibits over. Their hands linked together, Virgil’s thumb brushing comfortably over the back of Logan’s hand, and Logan leaned up to press a kiss to Virgil’s cheek.

“I put in my notices,” he informed Virgil, who nodded, still smiling. “No more critiquing. No more boring apartment.” He hadn’t been spending much time in his apartment over the past several months, anyways. Each morning he’d find himself waking up in Virgil’s warm embrace, the fairy lights of the loft illuminating their way, and each afternoon they’d paint side by side like they had at the start, except now when they needed a break, they’d fall into each other’s arms, cascading across the room, lips brushing together like paintbrushes on a canvas.


End file.
